


Early bird catches the sperm

by orphan_account



Category: The Bronze (2015)
Genre: (in fact it crosses the line into physical and verbal abuse), Bad BDSM Etiquette, Belts, Daddy Kink, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Gymnastics, Homophobic Language, Lance Tucker is an asshole, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Sexist Language, Teenage Pregnancy, Unreliable Narrator, anti-abortion language, author is pro-choice but character is not, fatphobic language, student/coach relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like most of us, I only watched The Bronze for Sebastian Stan, and frankly, I didn’t like it, so nobody is more surprised than I am that I wrote fic for it. I just felt bad for Maggie Townsend, whose only real crime was that she was naive and easily manipulated, and whose life basically got ruined as a result. I wrote this fic because I wanted to, er, un-ruin it a little bit.</p>
<p>Please read the tags and warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early bird catches the sperm

Mom always said life is a blessing, but I’m not gonna lie: it felt more like a curse when that little plus sign showed up. I had dreams, big dreams, and they didn’t involve being 17 and pregnant. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree - at least I was going to be one year older than Mom was when she gave birth to me, but after everything she sacrificed for me and my dreams, I knew she wasn’t going to take it real well when I told her she was going to be a grandma at 33.

There was somebody else I kinda had to tell first, though. The father. My Daddy. Lance Tucker.

Shut up, I know what you’re thinking. Eww, right? But he’s not my actual father or even my stepfather or anything like that. He’s my coach.

That probably doesn’t sound any better. A 29 year old gymnastics coach sleeping with his 17 year old student. Calling her Baby. Knocking her up with an actual honest-to-god baby. It just sort of happened, okay? My first day as his student at the new gym in LA, he pulled me into his office and told me that he knew I saw Hope as my friend, but he didn’t want me to think of him like that.

“You should think of me more like your father. Strict and stern, but only wanting the best for you.”

“I never knew my father,” I told him.

“I know that,” he said, looking annoyed. “Just pretend. It will do you good to have a man in your life.”

“Okay, Daddy,” I said. I said it to tease him, but he looked surprised and then he laughed. He’s beautiful when he laughs, seriously. The way he crinkles up his eyes. The way he throws his head back. Even back then, I felt my stomach twist a little when I saw it. I liked that I made him laugh. I wanted to make him laugh again.

“Alright, Maggie-baby,” he said. “If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s how we can play it. Not in front of anybody else, though, okay? It’ll be our secret.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Whatever I say.” I remember noticing suddenly how dark his eyes had become, the icy blue-gray of his irises just a thin ring around the blackness of his pupils. I didn’t know at the time what it meant. I didn’t know a lot of things.

Anyway, that’s how I became Maggie-baby. It turned pretty quickly into just plain Baby, but sometimes, when I did really well, he’d call me Baby Girl, and that was my favorite. The way he’d smile in those moments, and how his voice would soften and go low pitched when he said it, like a little secret just for me. I would have done anything for him in those moments. Everything. 

That wasn’t how it started, though. It was the opposite, actually, not sweet or loving at all. In any relationship between two people, whether student and coach, parent and child, sibling and sibling, employee and boss, or whatever, somebody is inevitably going to have a bad day. Everybody has bad days sometimes, and you just have to push through them. Unfortunately, it's a lot harder when you’re both having a bad day on the  _ same _ day. 

The day I lost my virginity to Lance Tucker, we were both having a  _ terrible _ day. I was messing everything up and getting frustrated and upset about it, and he was losing patience fast (he doesn't have much to begin with), both with my mistakes and my attitude. Lance doesn’t swear as much as Hope did on her bad days, but almost. By about three quarters of the way into our planned session, I was pretty sure the air must be turning blue from all the swearing, and every new curse that passed his lips felt heavier and heavier, like he was pounding them into my skull with a hammer. I was getting closer and closer to breaking down in tears and I finally just covered my hands with my ears and screamed at him to shut up.

Well.

He was already mad as a hornet in a jar, and that sure didn’t help matters. He yanked me up off the mat by one arm, his grip so tight I had bruises for days.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, little girl,” he snarled, and stalked off towards his office, dragging me behind. He pushed me inside so hard I stumbled and had to grab at his desk to keep from falling down and then he slammed the door behind us and turned on me, still furious.

“Wh-what are you doing, Daddy?” I quavered, starting to feel frightened.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today?” he shouted. “You can’t stay on your fucking feet! You do the beam, you land on your ass. You do the bars, you land on your ass. You do the fucking floor, you land on your ass. You land on your ass one more time, girl, and I’m gonna make damn sure you regret it. Bend over the desk.”

“What?” I said again, stupidly.

“I said, bend over the desk, girl, or do I make you?”

I bent.

Behind me, I heard him open the door of the little closet where he kept his extra clothes, and there was a muffled jangle of metal. I craned my neck around just in time to see him folding a thick leather belt in half and taking the loose ends in one hand. He gave an experimental slap against his palm, winced, and grinned.

“Daddy, please!” I gasped. “Please don’t hit me, I’ll do better!” My mom had taken her belt to me one time in my entire life, when I was 8 years old and stole a candy bar from the gas station. It was horrible.

“You’re damn right you’ll do better,” he said. “And I’m going to hit you whether you want it or not, because your job is to land on your fucking feet and my job is to correct you when you’re wrong, and unlike you,  _ I do my fucking job _ .”

He demonstrated by cracking the belt hard across my buttocks. The thin leotard I was wearing gave hardly any protection at all, so I felt every bit of that sting. I may have screamed, I don’t really remember.

“Say it,” he growled behind me.  _ Slap _ . “Say, ‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’”  _ Slap _ . “‘I won’t land on my ass anymore.’”  _ Slap _ .

My whole backside felt like it was on fire and I was crying. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I hiccoughed between sobs. “I won’t land on my a-a-”

SLAP! The hardest yet.

“My ass!” I yelped. “I won’t land on my ass anymore.”

“Good,” he growled. “Good girl. You do and you’ll regret it. Here.”  _ Slap _ . “Are a few more.”  _ Slap _ . “Reminders.”  _ Slap _ . “For you.”  _ Slap _ .

I wasn’t so much crying as whimpering by that point, half out of my mind with the pain, and yet I remember how strange his voice sounded then. A little breathless with the effort and yet oddly hoarse, like he was fighting something. I heard a thud and a jangle as he tossed the belt aside and it hit the floor, and then he grabbed me by the hips and flipped me over on the desk so I was looking up at him and he was there, right there, standing at the edge of the desk between my open legs. His body sagged a little, like his anger had left with the belt, but there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his face was red. His eyes were bright and black, every bit of ice swallowed up by his pupils, and suddenly I knew what it meant, knew what he’d been fighting.

I knew, because I’d been fighting it, too.

“Daddy,” I croaked, hearing my voice crack, rough with crying. I reached up to touch his face, wipe away a few of the little beads of sweat, and that seemed to break something in him.

“Maggie-baby,” he said, almost a groan, and then he fell on me, pushing our mouths together hot and frantic. I could feel him hard against the thin fabric covering my crotch and I wrapped my legs around his waist and hooked them together, pulling him in, grinding him against me until he moaned and reared up, breaking the kiss. He grabbed the neckline of my leotard in his hands, and pulled, gritting his teeth with the effort until the cloth gave way with a sharp tearing noise and fell away from my body in tatters, leaving me exposed to him.

It was the first time I’d ever been naked in front of a man and the odd thing was that I didn’t feel shy or ashamed or frightened at all. I shoved the tattered remnants of the leotard off my shoulders and sat up - wincing a little, I admit, as I put weight on my still-smarting ass - and tugged just as eagerly at his clothes, helping him shuck his shirt off over his head, shove his pants down around his knees, and then he was kissing me again, kissing me like he was going to devour me, and shoving inside me, hard and not gentle at all. 

I yelped as he broke through my hymen and he pulled away from my mouth as quickly as if he’d been burned

“You were a fucking virgin?” he demanded incredulously.

“Yes,” I said, suddenly frightened. Was that a bad thing? Was he angry again?

“Fuck,” he said, his eyes going wide and shocked. “I didn’t know, we shouldn’t have-” 

He was already starting to gather himself together and pull out, so I tightened my legs around him and hung on. “Please,” I said. “Please, I want it.”

He stilled, still half in and half out. “I-” he started.

“Please!” I cried, and then I had an idea. “Please, Daddy, I want you to f-fuck me,” I said, in my sweetest little-girl voice, and I saw the exact moment he gave in.

I think I’ll remember that moment for the rest of my life, and not just because of my lost virginity. I had never felt so beautiful, so wanted, so  _ powerful _ . The pain in my ass was forgotten, I felt like I could take on the whole world and win. He was my coach, my Daddy, my strict and stern taskmaster, but in that moment, it was I who ruled him.

“Maggie-baby,” he moaned, his voice breaking as he shoved back inside me. “My baby girl.”

“All yours, Daddy,” I told him. “Only yours. It’s all for you, just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Jesus fuck,” he said, pausing the staccato rhythm of his hips to stare at me. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Nowhere,” I said, confused. “It just… seemed right. Do you not like it?” I asked, suddenly worried.

He gave a strangled laugh and started moving again. “Say something like that again and I'm gonna blow my brains out through my dick. You're so fucking good, you have no idea. You're being so good for me.”

“I can be better. I'll do whatever you want, Daddy, anything if I can be your baby girl.”

“Jesus fuck,” he moaned again. “Keep talking.”

So, yeah. That’s how I became a teen pregnancy statistic. 

I mean, probably. Technically, I guess it could have been any of the other 25 or so times we did it over the next two weeks. I wish I could say I even thought about birth control, but I hadn’t had my period for about six months at that point, so when I finally did remember about 10 days in that possibly we should be using some sort of protection, I figured it probably didn’t matter and I didn’t even bother to bring it up with him. For his part, I guess he figured the same, or maybe he thought since I never brought it up that I was on the Pill or something. Whatever it was, our efforts to christen every mat and piece of equipment in the gym remained unencumbered by the effort of finding a condom before we started going at it.

We were having a great time, until I noticed about a month after that day with the belt that my breasts suddenly hurt when I ran, and worse, seemed to be  _ growing.  _ A couple weeks later, I started getting queasy in the mornings, and that was when I started to suspect what had happened. My mom always groaned a little bit when she reminisced about how sick she got when she was pregnant with me.

So there I was, two days later, with a positive pregnancy test in my bag and my dreams of winning another gold medal in ruins at my feet. In Lance’s arms, I might have felt like I could take on the world, but the battle I was fighting sure as heck wasn't going to be the next world championship. It’s pretty hard to do a floor routine when you’re 7 months pregnant and can’t see your feet. 

To borrow Hope’s favorite word:  _ fuck _ .

Lance’s office door was open when I came into the gym, careful to make sure there was nobody else around. As his gold medal student, our lessons had always been private, but they were extra private now that I was as likely to be riding Lance as the pommel horse if anybody should suddenly walk in. However, I was half an hour early for our session, and I wasn’t sure if he was always the first into the gym or not.

He looked up from his papers when I knocked on the doorframe, and looked surprised to see me. Little did he know.

“What are you doing here so early, Baby Girl?” he said, getting up and coming over to me.

“I, uh, needed to talk to you,” I said.

“Talk?” he asked. “Or ‘talk?’” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

One of the things I’d learned over the preceding six weeks was that Lance was basically always horny. This worked fine for me, because I was, too. Especially around him. I mean, c’mon. You’ve seen him on TV. He really is that gorgeous.

“Can we do both?” I asked, good intentions about serious adult conversations flying out the window. I’m weak, sue me.

“Okay,” he grinned, picking me bodily up, and kicking the door shut behind me with one foot. Then he pushed me up against it and proceeded to jackhammer me into the wood until we both collapsed on the floor in sated and exhausted puddles of sweat and, well, other stuff.

Unfortunately, his hand landed on my breast and he suddenly frowned and sat up. “Are your tits getting bigger? You haven’t gone back to Hope’s 10,000 calorie-a-day diet, have you?” he asked suspiciously.

There was really no way to break this gently. 

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted out.

I’ve never seen a human being move so fast. Lance recoiled so hard he nearly hit the opposite wall.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?” he spat.

“I’m pregnant,” I said again, and burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” I sniffled. “I didn’t think I could get pregnant. I haven’t had my p-period in  _ ages _ .”

Lance was pulling on his pants like he was a fireman and the bell had just gone off. As soon as they were on, he ran over to his desk, unlocked the cash drawer, and started pulling out bills, counting frantically and fumbling as he tried to bundle them together with a rubber band. “Here,” he said, tossing the stack at me. “Go get it taken care of.”

“Taken care of?” I said, staring blankly at the bills. There had to be at least $200 in my lap.

“Abort it,” he said, his tone suggesting that I was a particularly stupid child.

“I’m not getting an abortion,” I said, my tears drying up with the shock of his words. “That’s murder!”

Lance ran his hands through his hair, his eyes a little wild. “I thought Hope  _ cured _ you of this stupid fucking Jesus shit! Of course you’re going to abort it.”

“It’s not stupid,” I said. I don’t get mad very often, but I could feel it starting to build up. My brows were already starting to pull together into what Mom called my “stormy” face. She hardly ever saw it, so on the rare occasions we fought she tended to give in as soon as she did. I wondered if it would work the same on Lance. “And I’m  _ not _ going to abort it.”

Lance groaned and collapsed into his chair. His hair was sticking up in every direction. “Do you understand what this will do to me if it gets out?” he said. “If the Federation finds out I slept with a student, my coaching career is over. Fuck, have you even had your 18th birthday yet?”

I shook my head. “I only turned 17 four months ago.”

“Fuck. Fuck!” he said, banging his head on the desk. “Shit! So not only is my career dead, but I could go to fucking jail for this! Do you want me to go to jail?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Then abort it. Please, I’m begging you. This can’t get out! Look,” he said, rummaging in his drawer again and pulling out more handfuls of cash. How much did he  _ have _ in there? “I’ll pay you. I’ll give you more if you just abort the fucking thing.”

I wiped my eyes and put one hand protectively over my still-flat tummy. “It’s not a ‘fucking thing,’ it’s my child. And yours. Don’t talk about it like that again.” I stood up and pulled on my track pants and jacket, gathering my bag and the rest of my clothes in my arms. “And I won’t abort,” I added, glaring at him and turning to go.

“Wait,” he said. “What about your gold medal? You can’t compete in the world championship next year if you’re pregnant. What about your dreams? What about your  _ career _ ?”

“They’ll just have to be put on hold,” I said, opening up the door.

Suddenly Lance was right there between me and the exit.

“Look,” he said. “Wait. I’m sorry, I just panicked, okay? Don’t be mad. We’ll figure this out.”

“I can’t believe you want to murder your own child,” I said, glaring at him.

He flinched, but grabbed my arm. “Just… don’t tell anyone else yet, okay? I’ll figure this out.”

“The honorable thing to do would be to marry me,” I snapped.

His jaw dropped open and he blinked at me, looking weirdly fish-like and not handsome at all. “Are you from fucking Victorian times all the sudden? If I marry you, that might as well be a full confession. Sex with an underage student - my career’s over. Dead. Kaput. Ain’t happening, Baby.”

“So what are you gonna do, send me away to the country for my confinement?”

Lance was still staring at me like I was a zoo animal or something. “For a girl who sucked my dick hanging upside down on the parallel bars, you’re still being weirdly 19th century here,” he said. I felt myself flush. I can't help it that my mom likes to watch old Jane Austen movies. But when I opened my mouth to respond, he slapped a hand over it. “I told you, I’ll figure this out,” he murmured, voice dropping to our special tone. “Just listen to Daddy and don’t tell anyone. Got it, Baby Girl?”

I was still mad at him, but I felt my resolve slipping under the full force of his voice and his gaze. “Okay, Daddy,” I whispered.

“Good girl. Go get dressed and go home. Get yourself a milkshake or something - I guess if you want to take up Hope’s 10,000 calorie a day diet again, there’s nothing now to stop you getting as fat as you want. Ain’t like it’s gonna be the deciding factor between you and another gold when you’re waddling around with a belly like you just swallowed a watermelon.” 

“I’m not going to get fat again,” I said, stung.

Lance just raised his brows at me. 

“Pregnant’s not fat,” I muttered.

“It sorta is,” he said. He dug a piece of gum out of his pocket, popped it in his mouth, and promptly snapped it, then grinned. “You know, I never fucked a preggo chick before,” he said. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“You’re gross,” I said.

“Never bothered you before,” he leered, and headed back to his desk. “Your tits look great, by the way,” he added over his shoulder. “I can see I’m going to enjoy this.”

Ugh. I didn’t dignify that with a response.

*************

Thank God my mom had gotten bored sitting around at home about two months into our relocation and gone out to get herself a job as a waitress at a diner about a mile from our apartment, or I never would have been able to hide the next few mornings of more or less continuous throwing up. Lance finally called three days after our conversation at the gym.

“Come to my office,” he said. “I figured it out.”

“How?” I asked. I was clammy and tired from another round of barfing, propped up with one elbow on the toilet seat. Gross as it was - toilet water smell, ugh - I really didn’t feel like moving.

“I’ll explain when you get here,” he said.

Double ugh. I hauled myself up and into the shower.

“You look like shit,” Lance said cheerfully when I got to his office about 40 minutes later.

“I’m sorry your baby made me barf all morning,” I said sarcastically. 

“The sicker you are, the stronger it will be. That’s an old wives’ tale, right?”

“I think it’s supposed to mean it will be a girl,” I muttered. 

“Good. With genes like ours, maybe she can grow up to fulfill your dream of becoming an Olympic gold medalist, since you’ve decided to throw away your chance.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m not aborting this baby, so you can stop trying to make me feel bad about keeping it.”

Lance shrugged. “Fine. Whatever. I took care of it anyway.” He swept his arm grandiosely towards the desk behind us. “Meet Ansel Sommer.”

That’s when I noticed the other person in the room. Ansel grinned sheepishly at me from the chair by Lance’s desk, where he’d clearly been trying to make himself look as small as possible. He was pretty short, which helped, but so muscular he made Lance look like Jack Skellington, so the only reason it really worked was Lance intercepting me before I could spot him and distracting me.

“Hi, Ansel,” I said politely, then immediately turned back to Lance. “I’ve been coming to your gym for five months, “ I told him. “I already know Ansel. Why is he here?”

“He,” Lance said, “is the solution to our problem. And we’re the solution to his. This really couldn’t have worked out any better for all of us, in fact. I’m a fucking genius.”

I rolled my eyes. “Let me decide that.”

“Ooh, look at Baby, all grown up and making her own decisions,” Lance cooed in a truly revolting voice. 

“I’m going to have to, aren’t I?” I said, dropping a hand protectively to my belly. “Or is ‘taking responsibility’ such an alien concept in California?”

“Hey now, spare me the judgement until you hear my brilliant plan,” Lance said. “Ansel here, as you may know, is a big flaming faggot and has been fucking Chris Czajkowski behind his parents’ back for, what, three years now?”

“Four,” Ansel said sheepishly.

“His parents are Jesus freaks like you - you’re going to love them - and will disown him if they find out. And they’re starting to get suspicious. So, we’re going to throw them off the scent. You, Maggie-baby, have been having a secret affair with him and whoops! The condom broke. So Ansel is going to do the  _ honorable _ thing and marry you. He’s a rising star, so he’ll get plenty of endorsements, and his parents are rich as fuck anyway, so he’ll be able to support you and the baby a helluva lot better than your mom’s waitressing job. Ansel can keep fucking Chris. I can keep fucking you. Ansel is less than two years older than you so nobody loses their job or goes to jail. And the only one who loses anything is you, because you’ll be sitting on the sidelines with a big baby belly cheering on your beloved husband at the next world championships instead of standing on the podium yourself like you deserve. But really, the media’s gonna eat that shit up with a spoon, so it could be worse. When he wins Olympic gold, you’ll probably get a Lifetime movie about your oh-so-sweet teenage romance.” Lance snapped his gum and grinned. “Genius, am I right?”

I had to admit it was surprisingly thorough, but I was still grouchy from the argument the other day (not to mention all the barfing), so I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction so easily. “What if I don’t want to keep fucking you?” I grumbled.

Lance snorted. “The alternative is a life of celibacy with your homosexual husband while he’s off getting his ass ploughed by Chris Czajkowski, and if that thing you did to me on the pommel horse is any indication, that’s not a life that’s gonna suit you real well. Anyway, I’d like to see you try and be satisfied with anybody else after you’ve had me. I’m the best, Baby Girl, and don’t you forget it.”

I saw Ansel’s brows go up incredulously. “Okay, rule number one for this arrangement. I don’t care what kinky shit you guys get up to when you're alone, but I  _ don’t want to know _ . I don’t rub Chris’s amazing ass-ploughing skills in your face, you don’t rub anyone’s pussy in mine. Agreed? Also, please take the pommel horse out back and burn it. What was she even doing on there? Girls don’t need to learn pommel horse.”

Lance smirked. “She was f-” Ansel and I both lunged for his mouth at the same moment and our hands smacked together as we covered it up before he could say any more. 

Lance rolled his eyes as Ansel and I grinned at each other in triumph.

“I guess we make a good team,” I said shyly to Ansel. “Wanna get hitched?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote from the film.
> 
> I marked this as complete for now, but in my head, she has her baby and goes back to school and becomes a physical therapist or something and makes sure Lance doesn’t take advantage of anyone else. (With or without having lots of kinky - and SSC - hatesex with him, you decide.)


End file.
